


lily white, poppy red

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Family Fluff, Flower Crowns, Gen, Hair, Hair Braiding, Mostly Gen, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23036527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Jaskier can't resist putting flowers in Geralt's hair.EDIT:now with fanart~
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 55
Kudos: 477





	lily white, poppy red

He thinks the red of the blossoms will pair well with Geralt’s hair. Silver with the jewel tones of cherry red, and Jaskier’s hands itch to reach out and take one of the plants between his own palms.

He’s been watching Geralt work over the campfire for the better part of the night, crushing and grinding and cooking plants and herbs in ways that kick up the most foul of smells. And the beggartick blossoms don’t even smell _nice,_ which is a shame, really, because their flowers are large and the brightest red Jaskier’s seen in wild plants in awhile. They’re used to make fisstech, too, Geralt had said, which _kind of_ promotes some credence on the ‘in small doses, it can soothe pain’ explanation, but evidently he’s making fighting things and not potions, anyway, so it doesn’t even matter.

White Death, werewolf decoctions, blade oil… all Jaskier can think about is how he’d like to tuck one of those large blossoms behind Geralt’s ear, snug against his hair that Jask has taken such a liking to.

His hands are moving before he can stop himself. He plucks one of the blossoms from the pile while Geralt’s head is turned, and just as quickly threads it behind Geralt’s ear. There. It goes as well as Jaskier had expected, bright crimson against muted gray. Beautiful. And, as Jaskier had expected, Geralt doesn’t like it at all.

“Jaskier,” he grunts, and his hand raises automatically to tug the plant loose. “Don’t. I’m running low enough as it is.”

“I didn’t _ruin_ it, Geralt, for goodness sake.” But there’s fondness in his voice. He can’t resist poking the bear, or, in this case, the grumpy witcher. “You’re just grumpy because it makes you look _charming.”_ He’s not wrong, on the grumpy assumption _or_ the charming one.

“I’m not charming.”

“Oh, I think you possess a _lot_ of ability to be charming,” Jaskier goads. “A true lady’s man, if you wanted. Maybe not as much as _me–”_ Geralt snorts softly, but Jask pushes on without stopping. “– but get a nice doublet, put that blossom in your hair, tie it back with a nice ribbon, and find some boots that don’t reek to all hells– you’d be dashing.”

“So you’re agreeing I’m not.” 

He gives Geralt his best stare, the kind he’s been told can persuade a woman out of her silken underthings in broad daylight if he so wishes, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“All I’m _saying,”_ Jaskier continues patiently, “is that you’d benefit from a touch of color. That’s all.”

And he’s not lying there, either, but it isn’t _strictly_ true; it isn’t as though Geralt doesn’t look good enough as is. He _does_ look striking in his way, now, without baubles or ribbons and only his leather armor to his name. A bit filthy, actually, probably with a bit of blood and guts on armor or sword, but that’s all intriguing in itself. A little disgusting, but intriguing. So maybe he doesn’t _need_ the pop of color– dark and mysterious does suit a witcher in that brooding sort of way– but… it wouldn’t look bad, either. Not at all.

“Think I’d benefit more from oiling my blade,” Geralt says.

“Pragmatist,” Jaskier chirps kindly, and reaches to pick up his lute again, re-energized for the evening.

  
  


He’ll be the first to admit the wine’s gone to his head proper, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. It’s a party– a _wedding–_ and he’s half a mind to drink ‘til dawn if only because they have to stay until the festivities end in order to get the remaining details on their contract. This is a celebration that will go on for _days,_ he knows it. This is his kind of party, although he thanks the gods his entertainment had been slotted earlier because he’s not quite sure he can carry a tune like this and he isn’t keen to try.

Not that it _matters._ He is, essentially, off duty. He and Geralt both are.

He hasn’t seen much of the witcher, but that’s not surprising. Probably, he’s alone in one of the tents, drinking his fill of wine and mead, and Jask is happy to let him deal with the festivities in his own way because, well… he needs to cut loose himself. So he does, planning to drink and be merry until he can take no more.

He trips over his feet in the midst of the flower dance, and his head is whirling when he staggers out of the circle, laughing and dizzy from the spinning of avoiding stepping upon the blossoms in the field. Part of the game, part of the dance, and Jask feels nauseous from the raucousness and activity, but laughs even as he extricates himself from the rest of party-goers still stepping and pirouetting along. Gods, he’s going to puke. Even that’s funny, and he nearly falls over his boot laces again.

Someone catches him, and then he realizes that that someone is Geralt.

“See you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Geralt!” he announces. He feels flush from the wine, all the way down to his toes. _“There_ you are!”

“I’m going to sleep,” Geralt says, ever the party-pooper. “Seeing as how meditating would be damn near impossible here…”

“No,” Jaskier protests, and loops both of his arms around one of Geralt’s _particularly_ built arms. “Geralt, it’s so _early.”_

“Master witcher!” someone calls, before Geralt can open his mouth. It’s a lady, young and fair-skinned. Freckles. _Adorable._ Jaskier leans in to look closer, and nearly tips over. “I made this for you, master witcher!” she continues, and is just tall enough to stretch on tiptoes and place the chained loop of flowers on top of Geralt’s head. Then she flees, giggling, and Geralt is left staring after her, and Jaskier’s left staring at him.

Bright yellow flowers, something like hellebores, Jaskier thinks, chained together with forget-me-nots and red daisies, and some green flower Jask can’t for the life of him remember the name of, standing out so brightly against the drab of Geralt’s ‘party’ attire that it makes him blink from the surprise of it all.

And then he _laughs._ Oh Gods, he can’t help it, bursting into laughter so suddenly that _Geralt_ looks surprised, and then disgruntled, and then disgusted. And his sour face beneath the cheerfulness of the flower crown makes Jaskier laugh harder, until he’s half doubled over with tears on his cheeks and, _fuck,_ he doesn’t know if he’s going to hurl or piss his pants laughing but he can’t _stop–_ truly and rightfully sloshed. He almost falls over _again_ when Geralt wiggles his arm free.

“G– Ger––” He wheezes in laughter, and braces both hands on his knees. “You–”

He thinks he wants to say it suits him. He can’t get the words out, which is probably just as well.

“Wake me if anyone sobers up enough to talk contracts,” Geralt grumbles, and plunks the chain of flowers onto Jaskier’s head instead.

Something swoops in his stomach, but maybe it’s just the flowers threatening to spill from his hair. Still laughing, Jask reaches up to steady them, and fix them so they don’t fall. That poor lass, how was she to know Geralt was a stick-in-the-mud. Jask’ll wear them. He’ll wear them happily.

He swears he hears Geralt mutter something about “suiting better,” but he doesn’t really hear and he can’t _really_ comprehend too well right now. Someone offers him another glass of wine, and Geralt’s already gone when Jask turns back around.

He wears the flowers the rest of the night, and tosses them in his bag come morning to protect them from the effects of his terrible, terrible hangover.

  
  


“Stop that.”

Jask presses his lips together in a pout, absolutely ready to argue against Geralt’s cruel, cruel protest, when Ciri speaks first.

“I think they look nice,” she says– bless her _soul–_ and Jaskier’s heart swells at the team they make. Even Yen, carefully braiding Ciri’s hair, smirks a little behind Geralt’s back. “The color,” Ciri says, and holds a petal up to Geralt’s hair. “It’s pretty against your hair.”

 _I told you so,_ Jaskier wants to boast, but he bites his tongue for a quick moment because…

“… fine,” Geralt relents, mutters, and Jaskier nearly hollers in triumph. Gods bless Cirilla! Now he can weave as many flowers into Geralt’s hair as he likes, and takes great pleasure in doing so, letting Ciri pick out the colors and stems she likes, before expertly tying them together or slipping them into Geralt’s locks on their lonesome.

He’s putty for Ciri, their Geralt. But then, so is Yen, and so is Jask.

Geralt looks absolutely stunning when Jaskier is finished– and he says so, thank you _very_ much– picturesque with as many colors as he and Ciri had been able to find in the flora nearby. 

“He looks like he’s out of a fairy tale,” Yennefer muses, and she and Jaskier snicker because Geralt is trying very, _very_ hard not to glare at them.

Ciri agrees, hesitant in the way of a young girl targeted by hardship and danger and the inability to enjoy fairy stories and heroic tales like most young girls were wont to do. Jaskier still holds onto the idea of giving her back her childhood, but he thinks the opportunity gets further and further away with every day that passes.

But Geralt _smiles,_ just a little, resigned but pleased in turns. “He can put flowers in your hair, too,” he says, nudging Ciri gently.

Jaskier agrees immediately. “Of course! If I can make _Geralt_ look pretty–” it didn’t take much– “you’ll be positively _shining,_ Ciri.”

So he decorates her newly plaited hair with flowers as well, and then he and Ciri both adorn Yennefer’s when she demands she wants in on the fun. He’s just reaching for a pink one, something that goes against all of Yen’s nature and inclination towards the color black, when he feels the hair above his ear rustle, and looks up in time to see Geralt withdrawing his hand.

He has, of course, just put a flower behind Jaskier’s ear, but Jask still has to raise his hand to feel for the wilting stem and delicate petals. Even more charmingly, he then proceeds to gawk.

“Don’t think you get off so easy,” Geralt says, and his eyes are twinkling with his version of humor, but it still sounds so vaguely like a threat that it sends something scrambling in Jaskier, burning low in his gut and sending blood rushing to his face.

“Oh yes,” Yen agrees, looking over her shoulder. “We’ll get to you, bard. Make no mistake.”

Jaskier laughs, nervous and pleased and thrilled.

  
  


“Thanks, flower boy!”

Jaskier’s eyes widen when he realises his mistake. And he hears Geralt groan, a soft but extended noise beneath his breath. He flashes him a glare, and Jaskier quickly holds up his hands with a rueful smile. What can he do about it now, short of hurriedly plucking the flowers from Geralt’s hair? And he doesn’t even want to do that. So he doesn’t, and instead mouths _sorry_ as Geralt finishes paying for the bread from the stall.

Okay, so he’d neglected to take all the flowers from Geralt’s hair. And Geralt _complains,_ because it– _“apparently–”_ negatively affects Geralt’s public image as a scary witcher but Jaskier stands by the fact Geralt has had _so_ much worse and he’s never minded that, so why should he mind a few beautiful flowers? It's not like they’re going to ruin his reputation or anything. 

It’s a myriad of blue ones this time, and blue’s one of his favorite colors. Pale blues, mostly. Cornflower blue, like his eyes. He’d been thrilled to find cornflowers in the wild, and had tucked them into Geralt’s hair eagerly. _His_ color, on Geralt. Then it was gentians, morning glory, blue bells and freesia.

There were rare species here, Geralt had said; Jaskier believes it, flowers so vibrant that he’s stopped more than once to collect stems and petals he finds along the way. He’d love to take them home, re-plant, but they’d never last the journey and he’s never had much of a green thumb to begin with. So he’d taken to plucking a few and slipping them into Geralt’s hair, ostensibly as a continuation of his little hobby. And Geralt had noticed; they’d bantered a bit and their big bad witcher had taken a few out, of course– so Jask had taken to putting them in the back of his hair, more as a challenge than anything else. He’d promised to take them out before they got to town.

Geralt must have forgotten, and Jaskier had been distracted by the smell of fresh bread wafting from the town. Rationality tempered by hunger; surely Geralt understood. 

So, because of the flowers, Geralt is a whirl of white and blue when he turns to face him, and chestnut of armor with the metal of steel strapped to his back. Right alongside the hectic yellow of his eyes when he turns the full effect of his annoyance on Jaskier.

“I thought you told you not to do that. _How_ many times, Jaskier–”

One of the blossoms falls from Geralt’s hair. Jaskier reaches on instinct to catch it as it falls. He misses, and misses for a second time when he tries to snatch it straight from midair. Damn, one of the cornflowers. “I didn’t mean to leave them in,” he protests. “Besides, don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

“Like a dog enjoys fleas,” Geralt retorts, and stalks ahead.

But he doesn’t reach back to rustle the flowers free, hands busy at the half loaf of bread he’s already tearing into.

Jaskier laughs, and hurries after him. 

Oh, Geralt may complain, Geralt _does_ complain, anger in his eyes and a swat to his fingers if he tries to pretty him up. But Jaskier _knows_ Geralt’s true anger– knows the way the rage simmers beneath his skin, nearly imperceptible, and the way the fire lights in his eyes, deadly terrifying– when Geralt is _really_ angry. When the honor of maiden or child is at stake, when Ciri or Yennefer or Jaskier are in danger, when they’re stiffed on contracts or when innocents die. But this anger? Geralt chastising him for _flowers in his hair?_ This is Geralt _playing,_ and Jaskier knows that better than anyone. Actually, he’s not sure he’s ever seen Geralt _tease_ with anyone else, except him, and Yen, and Ciri.

So, these little reactions? Jaskier cherishes them so very much. Like the flowers in Geralt’s hair, Jask thinks they’re beautiful, too.

His stomach rumbles at the smell of the bread floating back to him, and Jask picks up his feet to fall into step next to him again. “Geralt, _I’m_ the one who was hungry.”

“No, you’re just the only one who complains about it every five minutes.”

“I can’t help you’ve had me on the road all day! Give me the other half.” He reaches for the bread, and squawks when Geralt holds it far out of reach. “Geralt!”

“Shouldn’t give you this, for the flowers.”

“It’s not my fault! I can’t help myself.” He can’t. He never has been able to.

“You never can, huh?”

“Never,” Jaskier agrees, and snatches at the bread again. “Geralt, _pleaaaase._ I’m _starving._ Look, I’m withering away to nothing.”

“If I could be so lucky,” Geralt mutters, but he lets Jaskier take his half without further fuss this time– and almost looks like he’s smiling a bit himself, too, inasmuch as he ever does.

Jask tears into his meagre dinner with an easy grin, happily following after destiny and the cluster of colored flowers still tucked secure into its hair. 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a convo between me and a friend of us just basically being like. Yen doing Ciri's hair. Jask doing Geralt's. Lots of flowers. Good. also couldn't resist Jask with flower crown because screams softly
> 
> if you wanna infer that Geralt, Jask, and Yen are all in a relationship thus deeming Jaskier's pining not really pining just being Soft, and that they're all co-parenting Ciri in this fic, even more good 👌


End file.
